The End of the Verses of Jehan Prouvaire
by theShinyBarricade
Summary: He was sure there was a light. He wasn't sure if it was the light of a torch, or of the shot of a gun, or perhaps The Lord himself, but there was a light on the top of the barricade.


A/N: Inspired by conversations on Abaisse, and originally posted there a few months ago. Slightly tweaked from the original one on there.

The End of the Verses of Jehan Prouvaire

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The End of the Verses of Jehan Prouvaire

He was sure there was a light. He wasn't sure if it was the light of a torch, or of the shot of a gun, or perhaps The Lord himself, but there was a light on the top of the barricade.

From his perch near the top of the barricade, Jehan Prouvaire had been fighting, using the butt of his gun more than his bullets because of the nearness of the enemy. Somewhere along the way, his left eye had been blackened, but he didn't notice-his blood was running as quickly through his veins as the rain would later fill the gutter, and it was all he could do to not cry out in anger when he saw one of them trying to pass into his barricade. No, not his barricade-their barricade. The property of the future of France.

This is what was going through his mind when the back of a rifle found his temple.

He nearly fell backwards, into the arms of his comrades, but a hand in a white sleeve reached over and pulled him forward. The hand, losing its grip, dropped him onto the pavement in front of the barricade. Trying to land on his feet, Prouvaire instead landed on the side of his ankle, a small yet giant crack filling the street as the rest of him fell forward onto hands and knees. The street, a colorless slate of stone, was the only thing he could see through widened eyes. Before he could pull himself up, another set of hands, also encased in crisp white sleeves, jerked him to a standing position and bound his own hands behind him.

The side of the small store in front of him was nearly the same color as the street he had faced earlier. Instead of his nose being inches from this, though, it was a good ten feet between him and the wall. Some guardsmen-maybe five, maybe twenty, the pain in his ankle was muddling his brain-were surrounding him, expecting him to fight. He couldn't, though he wanted to. He knew what was going to happen if some miracle wouldn't happen soon.

One of them-the captain, perhaps-ordered that Prouvaire be led to the wall. He tried to comply. He made it two steps before his ankle gave way, giving him almost no time to correct himself before he hit the stones once more. He was trying to get up when one of the men, perhaps the same one that had helped him up earlier, tried to get him on his feet again. The captain motioned his man to leave Prouvaire to his own devices.

Finding his footing once more, Prouvaire resumed his walk to his target and probable execution site. As he kept going, however-slowly, for fear of finding himself on his knees a third time-he became angrier with himself, for allowing himself to be captured, to allow himself to follow their orders. But it since he was captured, his options were to follow or be killed, and if he was alive right now, perhaps he could be traded or freed. Perhaps he would just be killed later.

Whatever was in the future, the present was still a certainty-he was surrounded by men with guns, he was almost to a wall that had no color, and his ankle was engulfed with flames from hell itself. He was supposed to be humiliated; he was a crippled prisoner.

When he reached the wall, he contemplated leaning against it to rest his ankle. But he made himself stand up straight. If he were to die here today, he would die Jehan Prouvaire, poet, revolutionary; he refused to Jean Prouvaire, failure, cripple.

Trying to pull his somewhat short stature into something more imposing, hoping the anger he felt in his chest was being expressed in his eyes. There was murmuring among the guards; one of their own had been captured. A light was brought in and placed to his left; perhaps a trade was underway.

The guards placed themselves into a single line.  
The guards lowered their guns, aimed towards the poet's chest.

Looking first into the barrels, then above the commander and into the darkening sky, Prouvaire shouted, "Long live France! Long live the future!"

A flash passed.

A report rang out.

Silence fell once more.


End file.
